


and there I will be buried

by Cerberusia



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1892598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you say to a man you haven't seen in five years - because you were the one who faded out of contact?</p>
            </blockquote>





	and there I will be buried

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



> No doubt this will be utterly Jossed by Series 8, but one works with what one has. Honestly, since I've been remiss in acquiring the DVDs for Series 6&7, my remembrance of them is pretty sketchy. The potential relationship between Lewis and Hathaway is left deliberately ambiguous, mainly because both Robbie and James are only just beginning to consider the possibility of a non-platonic arrangement. The title is a quote from a famous and easily Google-able Bible passage.

Tom Tower strikes the hour - or rather five past. James pauses in his lecture notes: the majesty of the bells of Oxford has always seemed to him like something sacred. Ten chimes; he waits until the last has faded away before returning to Aquinas. He'd have a gulp of tea, but he knows the cup on his desk has gone cold.

The phone on his desk rings. James puts down his papers and answers it, feeling a brief flicker of irritation: he's been working on that lecture for a hour today, and he was getting into the groove of finding sources for his half-remembered quotations. He swears he used to be better at that.

"There's a gentleman in the Lodge here to see you, James," says Ethan, their youngest porter. "He says his name is Lewis."

"Thank you," says James after a pause; "I'll be right down."

Before he leaves he takes a swig of cold tea anyway, for fortitude.

Lewis looks - almost exactly as James remembers him, really. A bit more silver in his hair, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes a little more pronounced. James can't name the expression on his face when he ducks into the lodge and lingers awkwardly in the doorway.

"James!" he says.

"Sir," says James, out of habit, then remembers. "Robbie, rather."

"That's more like it." James appreciates the effort Lewis - Robbie - is taking to make this less awkward. He must have gained considerably in tact in the time since they last saw each other.

"Pub?" Yes, James could use a stiff drink right now.

"Yes, just let me get my coat." Oxford is punishingly cold in Hilary term. James nips back to his room at a brisk pace to fetch his peacoat; he tips out his tea before he leaves. No sense in leaving it to make a sticky ring in the mug.

James doesn't ask which pub; he knows which one. Sure enough, they head down St. Giles and turn onto the Broad at a brisk pace to stave off the winter chill, and arrive in short order at their old haunt The White Horse.

"You come here much these days?" Robbie has regained some of his Geordie accent while he's been up north, James notices.

"Not so much, no: St. Gerard's tend to drink at Far From The Madding Crowd." And if I plan to get drunk I prefer to do it at home, he doesn't add.

"The one up by Tesco's? I'd have thought the Bird and Baby was more your thing."

"That's the one. Yes, Bird and Baby would be _appropriate_ , but a fiver for a pint is extortionate; besides, it's always crowded with tourists."

"Ah, the tourists. Now that's something I _don't_ miss." Robbie leans back in his chair, gazing through the window above James' head. He used to do that sometimes when they were on cases: just stare out the window, any window, with an expression that suggested to James that whatever he was thinking, it had to do with the wisdom acquired only through long experience of life. Of course, he could just have been pondering what to have for dinner - or 'tea' as he called it - but James liked to think he knew his guv'nor better than that. He hopes he still does.

"How about the weather?" James just restrains himself from adding 'sir'. Robbie makes a face.

"You know exactly how I feel about the weather. I swear it doesn't get so damn cold up north, though - Oxford's special like that. But I got more than me fair share of sun in the Virgin Islands, so I thought I'd let Manchester catch me up on all the English rain I missed." A lemon-sucking grimace accompanied this pronouncement. They sipped their pints in silence for a moment before Robbie spoke up again:

"Have you thought about what you're going to do when you retire?" In Robbie's accent, 'retire' becomes three syllables instead of two.

"I...honestly hadn't thought that far ahead, s-" Again, he barely catches himself.

"You actually sound less cheeky without the 'sir' than with." The thin lined skin around Robbie's eyes crinkles with amusement.

"It's a well-honed talent of mine. Sir." This time Robbie chuckles. God, James has missed this. He left the force for a few reasons, but one of the biggest was that he knew he couldn't have continued as a policeman without Robbie. Even if they promoted him - which Innocent hinted they might well have done - and given him a bright young sergeant of his own like Grey to carry on the legacy, he couldn't have. He's too bound to Robbie.

Robbie is leaning across the table, confidential:

"Well, I'd tell you this when you do retire, but by then I'll probably be dead so I reckon I should do it now. The thing is, James - I miss you."

James considers the face in front of him. Tanned, lined skin with a touch of ruddiness; keen, kind blue eyes; a mouth more readily inclined to smile than last he saw it. An honest face. Robbie is still talking.

"I miss having you around. I'm not asking you to - come home with me, or anything. I just want to see you more often." Robbie exhales harshly. "Maybe I'm getting sentimental in me old age-"

"No, sir." James has given up on the verbal tic for now. "Or perhaps yes, but in that case so am I. Five years is too long. I'm sorry, avoiding you was stupid of me."

"I wanted to come and find you meself, but moving and having two new grandchildren keeps you pretty busy," admitted Robbie. "When I had a bit of time again, I started thinking about it again. I thought, maybe you had your reasons - but I wanted to know what they were, y'know?"

James gives him a smile that felt wobbly at the edges.

"I tried to make a clean break: minimal fuss, minimal emotional anguish, minimal awkwardness on both sides. As you can see, it didn't go very well. I don't know exactly what you're asking, but I'm pretty sure the answer's yes."

"Talk to me again. And then...well, unless Lynn is planning on popping out another one in the near future, in a couple of years I was thinking I might move back down here."

James feels his eyebrows strain for his hairline.

"I like being back up north, I love being with me daughter and me grandkids - but I want to be in Oxford. And, assuming your living habits aren't completely incompatible with mine, I'd like us to live together."

"Looking for a spry young thing to look after you in your decrepitude?" asks James drily, finally taking his pint back up. A fortifying swallow of beer is in order.

"Give over, you. Well? How about it?"

James considers. He considers not their past, but their future: the snark over the breakfast table; the shared crossword puzzles; the potential washing machine disasters. He imagines setting out in the morning for St. Gerard's and knowing he'll have someone to come home to. He says, sincerely:

"Sir, there's nothing I'd like better."


End file.
